10
PARTISAN REVIEW
followed. The propagandistic literature that was translated into many
languages was for the most part mediocre and repetitive even though it
appeared under the name of famous men, including world-renowned
writers. In the realm of the intellectuals Munzenberg became a pied
piper, and the whole world was his Hamelin. He issued a call and the
signatures came - for appeals in behalf of starving and politically
persecuted people, colonial peoples or innocently sentenced Negroes,
non-Communist writers, philosophers, and clergymen, though most of
the last group were actually secret agents of the Cornintern.
For good and less good reasons Munzenberg's propaganda ap–
pealed especially to intellectuals, and thus he found it easy to perfect an
instrument of propaganda that never went out of fashion: the "signature
stamp." He induced writers, artists, bishops, philosophers, and scholars of
all kinds to testify with their signatures that they were placing themselves
in the front ranks of radical fighters. All they had to do was to protest
every time he wanted to issue an enthusiastic appeal for action, or to
proclaim their horror at heinous deeds. Miinzenberg assembled caravans
of intellectuals who set themselves in motion whenever he beckoned, and
in a direction determined by him. Once a name had appeared under a
half-dozen declarations submitted by Munzenberg's associates, it was used
subsequently without the express permission of the person involved.
It
became the pleasant habit of countless intellectuals to see their names
printed over and over again in the morning paper next to much more
famous or less well-known names.
It
is a known fact that Miinzenberg's
"stamp" is,
mutatis mutandis,
still rendering good services.
Before I had met Mlinzenberg I knew, as so many others did, that
he was not very choosy in recruiting capable men for his staff. His instinct
guided him in hjs search for
serviceable
people, but their abilities were not
allowed to diminish their obedience and loyalty to him.
A few years later our emigration brought us together, but we had
met only twice before that. Willi was short, but his disproportionately
long torso made him appear quite tall when he was sitting down, and his
clean-shaven face remained ageless. When he was thinking something
over and trying to make a quick decision, his eyes would fasten on some
object in the room and sometimes, as though accidentally, on the face of
the person with whom he was conversing. The tension eased when he
made his decision and knew what orders he could give. The son of a
village innkeeper, he had been orphaned at an early age and his first job
had been that of a "last-boy" in an Erfurt shoe factory. He did not use
the authority he had over many people like an entrepreneur or a senior
officer commanding a troop, but like a general directing battles from his
headquarters without getting close to the front. Yes, Willi, who had
